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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24910612">Opera Cakes and Second Takes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatWriterKid/pseuds/ThatWriterKid'>ThatWriterKid</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Professors, Aziraphale and Crowley are professors, Aziraphale is a Creative Writing Professor, Content Warning: deadnaming, Crowley is Trans, Crowley is a Music Professor, God is Crowley's mother, Good AUmens AU Festival, Good Omens AU, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Ineffable Partners, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:48:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,192</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24910612</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatWriterKid/pseuds/ThatWriterKid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>One week. Four pairs of students. The goal: write an opera and perform it in six days. </p><p>Professors Ezra Fell and Anthony Crowley weren’t expecting to write an opera in a week, but tenure is rare and life throws you curveballs.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Good AUmens AU Fest</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue: An Absence of Music</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So.</p><p>I've wanted to see Crowley being trans as a metaphor for the Fall for a while: there's a very distinct Before and After in his life, which leads to a lot of parallels. Transitioning comes after asking questions, after all, and you just <i>know</i> nothing stereotypically good comes from answering them. Crowley chose his own name. I've never been a big fan of the reading that Crowley is seeking redemption or hates himself--I've always read him as being comfortable with himself and furious that he's been punished for doing nothing wrong.</p><p>So that's how he's written here.</p><p>I also don't like deadnaming in trans stories, especially as a plot point, but it does happen over the course of this story. Sorry. God's character (who is NOT in character for Francis McDormand, but is in character for the American God I grew up around as a secular Jew) kind of did her own thing there, and it was really cathartic for me to write as a trans person myself so I'm not gonna apologize for it. I've tagged it and there'll be further warnings in chapters that deal with Crowley's transness.</p><p>Also, this story coincided really well with my original life-as-an-author writing I've been doing for a master's dissertation.</p><p>I meant to get this beta read (shoutout to @shakespearevillain for agreeing to it and then letting me be when I completely failed to follow up) but ran out of time since I am, you know, writing a dissertation. I only had so many spoons for editing. Oopsie.</p><p>I also actually took the opera workshop this is centered around--like just a couple months ago, before the pandemic hit the UK. It was every bit as weird and fun as it sounds. The professors didn't participate, but my department head told me she <i>did</i> have to participate the last time they did this. I sincerely doubt she met the love of her life in the process, though. </p><p>I'll be posting librettos over the course of the fic. Turning them into operatic podfics is highly encouraged.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There was silence in the concert hall.</p><p>Ezra’s shoes echoed on the wood with the resonance one could only find in a place devoid of the music it was meant for. <em>Tah-tah-tah-tah</em>: an announcement, an <em>I do not belong here</em>, a sound begging for the accompaniment of a doorman with a program.</p><p>Ezra was familiar with concert halls. He adored the symphony. But he was not familiar with <em>empty</em> concert halls. He tugged his bag into his side, fiddling with the fraying spot where the strap met the buckle, and wondered if he should place his bag on a chair or—were they meeting here or <em>meeting</em> here? Would the actual meat of the meeting be held elsewhere? Was this just a spot at which to meet and then reconvene elsewhere?</p><p>Meet. Meat. Mete. He’d said the word too often in his head now. It no longer sounded like English.</p><p>Oh, this was ridiculous. It was a week. <em>One</em> week. He had no reason to feel so out of place, so nervous. Gabriel had been very clear—he really just needed to lead some exercises today, then a workshop tomorrow, then show up and smile for the rest of the week. He liked listening to music. He <em>liked</em> opera. He knew nothing about it, but he didn’t need to, did he? It wasn’t like he was participating. Just teaching. It would look good for the department. <em>Interdisciplinary</em>, that was the buzzword right now, and it would be a feather in his cap towards the possibility of tenure.</p><p>Ezra found himself eddying, circling through the hall like a leaf in a river. A high ceiling. Windows up at the top, large and lithe, letting in sunbeams that caught dust in the air. A door at the back of the stage—it was barely a stage, this was barely a concert hall, if the seating were flatter or had pews it could be a church. There was an organ built into the back wall. Was that typical? Ezra couldn’t remember if that was typical. Perhaps it <em>had</em> been a church once. The university chapel was, after all, fairly modern—oh, this Dr. Zevuv fellow was late. Ezra didn’t know what to do with his hands. Or his coat. It was cold in here. But surely if they were <em>meeting</em> here, as in having the meeting in this physical space—</p><p>A door slammed behind him.</p><p>“Well,” someone drawled, “<em>that</em> went down like a lead balloon.”</p><p>Ezra jumped and turned. “I’m sorry?”</p><p>Red hair. Sunglasses <em>inside</em>. Snakeskin boots. This man, like Ezra, did not look like he belonged in a concert hall. Unlike Ezra, he was completely unaware of this fact, and belonged there anyway.</p><p>“Beez isn’t coming. Sorry. We just had it out in their office. You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“I’m sorry—Beez?”</p><p>“Ba’al. <em>Doctor</em> Zevuv.” His tone showed exactly how much he respected the doctor, which didn’t seem to be much. The man strode out like he owned the place, grabbed a couple chairs from the wings, and dropped them on the stage with absolute irreverence. He sat on one in reverse, leaning against the back of the chair as if the furniture had personally offended him. “Beez. Don’t call ‘em that, though, they hate it.”</p><p>“Is the workshop off?” Ezra stayed standing.</p><p>“Nah, no, uh. They just pawned it off. Sorry. Not sure what got them all in a snit, but you’re working with me this week. My <em>condolences</em>.”</p><p>“Thank you,” said Ezra, who was by this point <em>completely</em> out of his depth. “And who do I have the misfortune of working with, exactly?”</p><p>An extended hand.</p><p>“<em>Doctor</em> Anthony J. Crowley.” He said the title like a joke. “Call me Crowley. Not AJ, that’s for pricks, not <em>Doctor</em>, that’s for students, and you don’t want to know who calls me Anthony.”</p><p>“Who calls you Anthony?”</p><p>“You’re great at directions.”</p><p>Ezra laughed. He took the other chair, finally, although he chose to sit in it like a <em>normal</em> person. He tucked his hands into his lap. “I’m Dr. Ezra Fell, <em>Anthony</em>. Ezra or Fell to friends, Dr. Fell to students. Although from <em>you</em> I expect the entire title.”</p><p>For a moment, Ezra was worried. It was hard to read Crowley’s face under the sunglasses. Had he crossed a line, somehow? He’d thought he read the tone as teasing, as playful, but—</p><p>“You’re fucking with me,” said Crowley, and he grinned, and Ezra’s chest did something extremely troublesome. That smile. Well. It felt rare. It felt <em>special. </em>Maybe Ezra could blame it on the red hair—he had a bit of a <em>thing</em> for red hair—but that smile felt like sunlight breaking through the clouds.</p><p>“I am absolutely not. Ezra Fell. The whole name.”</p><p>“Well, <em>Ezra Fell</em>,” said Crowley, with that potentially troublesome grin, “I think we’ll make a great team.”</p><p>One week.</p><p>He only had to get through a week.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Day One: Introductions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Meet the opera professionals. Meet the students. Briefly, meet Anthony's mother.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warning: brief deadnaming at the end of the chapter. Anthony's mom is a piece of work. Again, she's more representative of my own relationship with god than the character in the series. </p>
<p>Notes on that at the end.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“If you’re not here to write an opera in a week, you’re in the wrong classroom.”</p>
<p>Crowley had come early to set up: a circle of chairs for the participating students, a piano, and a table. By now, the chairs had been cast out of formation by the art of entropy. The table was askew. The table had been immediately abused by the founder and director of Apocalypse Opera, Ms. Anathema Device. Now the poor thing sported two takeaway coffees in reusable mugs and the remnants of a millionaire shortbread in a bag.</p>
<p>Now, with the kids trembling before her, she dropped a large stack of books on it to punctuate her sentence. It worked. The students jumped. Ezra jumped. Newt Pulsifer jumped. Crowley snorted.</p>
<p>He liked Newt, despite himself, but you’d think the kid would know what to expect by now. Newt and Anathema had been engaged since they were undergrads under Crowley’s tutelage, and now they ran a business together. One day Newt would have to get used to the woman.</p>
<p>“No one run screaming yet?” Anathema was the only person Crowley knew who could smile with pursed lips. “Good. Here’s the plan. We have five days to write, compose, and produce short operatic scenes, which will be performed on Saturday by our professional singers. Singers, step forward!”</p>
<p>Three singers. Four writers, chosen from the literature department. Four composers, chosen from the music department. Gabriel and Beez had set this up, so Crowley wasn’t sure what exactly had gone into choosing the students, but they all seemed excited.</p>
<p>“Vimes is our baritone, Margaret is our soprano, and Esme is our mezzo-soprano. So composers, take note. We’ll hear them sing later. After that, Dr. Fell, you have some writing exercises for us?”</p>
<p>“I do, yes,” said Ezra Fell, and Crowley discovered fascination in the ceiling. Crowley refused look at Dr. Ezra Fell. Absolutely refused. He didn’t trust the man: the good and literary doctor had been literally <em>glowing</em> in a sunbeam when they met yesterday, and then he’d gone and used Crowley’s real name. Even Crowley didn’t use his real name. He thought of himself as <em>Crowley</em>. Maybe he could blame it on the nimbic tuft of curls the man was passing off as hair, or that damn beatific smile, but if he chanced a look this was going to be a problem.</p>
<p>“This is Newton Pulsifer, my husband, and your Producer for the week. Don’t be mean to him, or you’ll answer to me.”</p>
<p>Crowley <em>liked</em> Anathema.</p>
<p>“We’ve got four pairs, plus the professors—so we should use our full sixty minutes of stage time with intros at the beginning and some time to wrap up at the end. Each of your pieces will be ten minutes long—”</p>
<p>Wait. Plus the professors?</p>
<p>What did she mean, <em>plus the professors</em>?</p>
<hr/>
<p>“I didn’t know we were supposed to participate!” Ezra Fell hissed. They were hidden behind a display case in an adjoining room—a sign read “museum of historical musical instruments”, but nothing appeared to be on display. The cases were Victorian in style—thin wood frame, all clear glass—so despite taking over the room in a crowded arrangement they were a terrible choice for hiding behind. Still, the room itself was empty, and the students were listening to the vocalists lead their demonstrations, so the professors wouldn’t be overheard.</p>
<p>“Bit of a shock for me too,” said Crowley. “Anathema said she wanted to fill out the hour. They needed one more pair.”</p>
<p>Ezra Fell huffed. His arms were crossed and his face was just a little flushed with the frustration. He’d been staring intently at the crack in a corner display case, but in a fit of chance he looked at Crowley just as Crowley, idiot that he was, looked at him, and their eyes met. Suddenly every excuse Crowley had for not writing a goddamn opera fell away and vanished.</p>
<p>“We can always refuse,” he said, hoping the other man would have remembered some. “Nothing forcing us to do it.”</p>
<p>Ezra Fell cleared his throat. “No, ah. Well. I’ve really got nothing on for the rest of the week. But I know nothing about music.”</p>
<p>“I’ve never written an opera,” said Crowley. “So you’re in decent company.”</p>
<p>“You’re decent company now? Yesterday you were offering your condolences.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said Crowley, “<em>I’m</em> in decent company, anyway.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>“Wensleydale, you’re with Sable—” Crowley wasn’t familiar with the dark, brooding poet, but Ezra Fell had assured him that Sable’s work was excellent on a technical level, and Wensleydale was double-majoring in mathematics and composition.</p>
<p>“Brian, dear, you’re with… White?” Ezra wasn’t sure about that pairing. Brian was extremely easygoing, and White was a little unreadable. Anthony had insisted that White needed someone solid to ground them—the kid was fifteen, something of a prodigy, but paired with too strong of a personality they’d either vanish or take over completely, no middle ground.</p>
<p>“Carmine, you’re with Pepper. Don’t kill each other.” The women were already sitting together. They bumped fists. Crowley grinned. He had a good feeling about them. Carmine liked to fuck with Beez as much as he did, and Pepper had immediately engaged her in a mutual feminist rant this morning.</p>
<p>“Adam, I’m sure you’ve already guessed you’re with Warlock.” Ezra had a good feeling about this last one. Warlock wrote poetry in his spare time, Anthony had said, and Adam was one of the brightest fiction writers in this year’s cohort. Anthony had picked them out as a pairing right off the bat, and Ezra agreed.</p>
<p>“And <em>Doctor</em> Ezra Fell, you’re with me.”</p>
<p>They were standing next to each other on the concert stage, switching off the pairing announcements. They both had the usual in-front-of-a-crowd smiles on their faces, the easygoing host-personality faces that came with running an event, but then Anthony Crowley spoke and Ezra Fell reacted by glancing at him and then, without warning, they were smiling at each <em>other. </em></p>
<p>There was a simultaneous skipping of heartbeats.</p>
<p>“Fab,” said Crowley, wrenching free. “You’ve got the worksheets, disperse in your pairs and work through the exercises. Come back in an hour and we’ll talk through the results.”</p>
<p>The kids dispersed. Crowley glanced at Ezra.</p>
<p>“Shall we do this here?” he asked. “Or are you a coffee person?”</p>
<p>“I prefer cocoa,” said Ezra, “but fortunately for us, I think they’re served in the same location.”</p>
<hr/>
<ol>
<li><em>Separately compile a short list of adjectives and themes, then compare. What did you do differently? What do you have in common?</em></li>
</ol>
<p>“Effervescent.”</p>
<p>“Red.”</p>
<p>“Divine.”</p>
<p>“Black.”</p>
<p>“Ineffable.”</p>
<p>“Gray.”</p>
<p>“You can’t just list colors, Anthony.”</p>
<hr/>
<ol>
<li><em>Write a short narrative together, starting with the line “On the day the world ended…” Flip a coin to see who goes first; the winner finishes the line and passes it to their partner for the second sentence. Write the story one sentence at a time until it ends.</em></li>
</ol>
<p>“On the day the world ended, I was at the library.”</p>
<p>“Then it ended, so I died.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Whap.</em>
</p>
<p>“What? It’s the most likely outcome!”</p>
<p>“You’re a pessimist.”</p>
<p>“I’m an <em>optimist</em>. Who wants to live through the apocalypse?”</p>
<hr/>
<ol>
<li><em>Take a fairy tale and, together, write it from the villain’s perspective.</em></li>
</ol>
<p>“A fairy tale? Really?” Anthony leaned over his coffee, reading. He took it black. Of course he took it black, anyone who’d ever worn a jacket like that took their coffee black. “What do fairy tales have to do with anything?”</p>
<p>“I thought it seemed best to start from the beginning.” When flustered, Ezra reverted to prim. He was certainly flustered. Ezra had never had much of a <em>crowd</em>, per se—he got on well enough with his coworkers in Literatures, Languages, and Cultures, but as far as friends went he wasn’t sure his barber or the chef at his favorite sushi restaurant counted. He had certainly never spent much time with anyone who wore leather jackets and sunglasses. Or who sported—as he was somehow distressed (enthralled?) to discover—small face tattoos near their left ear. “The fairy tale is the oldest story. The <em>first</em>. Before novels, before poetry, we told stories about morality. About the things we saw in the darkness.”</p>
<p>“What we see in the darkness.” Anthony leaned back in his chair. Ezra wished he’d take off those sunglasses. It would have been somewhat comforting to know exactly how he was being judged. “All right. I’ll bite. What do you see in the darkness?”</p>
<p>“You know, I’m not sure.” Ezra took a bite of his chocolate cake, mulling over the question. “I suppose I’m old-fashioned. I’ve never been much afraid of wolves and spiders.”</p>
<p>“I’ll scratch Little Red Riding Hood off the list.”</p>
<p>Ezra laughed. “I suppose I prefer more complicated darknesses. Sin and temptation.”</p>
<p>Anthony raised an eyebrow.</p>
<p>“Not- Not that I’m particularly religious.” Oh. Oh dear. That was a kettle of worms Anthony certainly didn’t need to hear about over cake and coffee. “But the… shades of gray, as it were, the moral dilemmas.”</p>
<p>“Sin’s a moral dilemma?”</p>
<p>“If you understand it properly.” Ezra cleared his throat. “What about you, then, Anthony?”</p>
<p>Something about that question seemed to catch the other man off guard. Anthony cleared his throat. “Always just assumed I was one of the things in the darkness.”</p>
<p>“We’re off to a good start, then.” Ezra chuckled.</p>
<hr/>
<p>There was a smattering of conversation in the concert hall by the time they returned—Crowley made it a personal rule to be a few minutes late, but Ezra Fell looked a little mortified that they weren’t the first pair back. Pepper and Carmine were engaged in a rousing conversation involving something called <em>tumbler</em>, White was already composing in a notebook with Brian looking over their shoulder, and Wensleydale was avidly reading through Sable’s poetry. Adam and Warlock tumbled in right after the professors did, somehow managing to be a source of chaotic noise without actively <em>speaking. </em>Crowley made a face at Adam just as Ezra Fell waved Warlock back to the circle of chairs.</p>
<p>The pieces were microcosms of the pairings. Carmine and Pepper villainized the Prince from <em>The Little Mermaid</em>—who really stole Ariel’s voice, Carmine asked—and Brian had taken an ecological stance with regards to <em>Hansel and Gretel</em> that White didn’t seem completely on board with. Wensleydale and Sable had not actually managed to write a story, but Wensleydale had given Sable some very specific scansion instructions, which to the pair seemed to be just as good.</p>
<p>“—Now of course, the pieces you wrote together today don’t need to be the librettos you end up with. We’re done for today, but I highly suggest you spend some time with your partners tonight—get dinner or coffee—and brainstorm. Librettists, email your pieces to me by noon tomorrow and we’ll meet up at one in the afternoon to workshop our pieces. Composers, you’re not required to attend, but I’m sure it will be a learning experience, and I know we’d value your insight.”</p>
<p>There was a shuffling of papers and backpacks. Ezra didn’t have much to pack up—in fact, all he had out was his notebook, where he’d been sketching down some ideas as the students brainstormed. So he lingered awkwardly as Anthony answered a few questions, and then a little longer as Anthony gathered his own things. It was silly. They hardly needed to walk out together. There were no questions on Ezra’s mind that couldn’t be placed in an email. Surely—</p>
<p>“You coming?” Anthony asked. Oh. He was ready. “Or were you planning to spend the night?”</p>
<p>“Ah, yes! Sorry!” Ezra got a wiggle on and caught up quickly. “I had a few questions before we parted for the day.”</p>
<p>“Fire away.”</p>
<p>“Is there anything off-limits? Any subjects I should keep well away from?” If he didn’t know any better, Ezra would swear Anthony was smiling behind those glasses.</p>
<p>“Not really,” said Anthony, and paused. “What about you? You said you’re not religious, right? You won’t mind if I stick inspiration from a hymn in there or anything?”</p>
<p>Ezra suddenly felt as if he had to swallow cotton. “I’m… well. That’s a complicated question.”</p>
<p>“Sorry. You don’t have to answer—”</p>
<p>“It’s all right. To make a very, very long-but-unfortunately-common story short, I used to be.”</p>
<p>“Used to be?”</p>
<p>“I’m gay.” Strange how something that had taken decades of his life to admit could become so simple. The first coming-out had been intolerable. The second had been traumatic. Now the act was nearly an afterthought. Or it would have been if it weren’t for the tension in his shoulders, the weight of the past bearing down on his back. “Very gay. The church didn’t like that. So. My religion has become a spirituality.”</p>
<p>“Huh,” said Anthony. “Well, we have something in common.”</p>
<hr/>
<p><em>Good day</em>, Crowley thought.</p>
<p>He hopped on the bus and swiped his pass with an honest-to-goodness spring in his step. Good days weren’t uncommon anymore, but he hadn’t been expecting one. It had been a long past few weeks and listen, he loved spending time with students, but as of yesterday he’d never felt so burnt out in his life. It wasn’t the best timing, was all.</p>
<p>Crowley hadn’t composed something new in a while, though. Maybe this would be good for him. And that lit teacher—creative writing teacher?—was more engaging than anyone had any right to be. Dr. Ezra Fell.</p>
<p>Ezra Fell. Whole name.</p>
<p>It was a nice name. Crowley let it roll around absently in his mind as he looked out the window, watching Edinburgh pass by in fits and starts and twilit streetlights. He ignored the buzzing in his pocket in favor of listening to <em>The Velvet Underground </em>in peace, just for a little while.</p>
<p>Once he got home, once he’d put away his coat and taken off his shoes and had dimmer simmering on the cooktop, once he was emotionally <em>prepared</em>, he looked at his missed messages.</p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>THE WORD OF GOD</em>
    </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Oh for fuck’s sake just pick up</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Listen, I’m very happy you’re coming over for Easter but we need to figure out what to tell people. Your father’s having an anxiety attack.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Rachel, answer the phone.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Fine. Call me back when you’re ready to behave like an adult. I’ll be waiting.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Crowley groaned. He fell back on his couch and stared at the ceiling for a minute, trying to steel his nerves for the oncoming storm. Not like he hadn’t expected any of this. Reaching out again meant you took the good with the bad, the hugs with the homophobia, the love with the long voicemails, the having-a-family with the… well, having-a-family.</p>
<p>Bzzt.</p>
<p>Crowley fully expected another text from his mother, but… no. No, it was a quiet shelter from the storm.</p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>Dr. Ezra Full-Name-Only</em>
    </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Dsc000129.jpg</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Anthony— A small hint as to the story I’m working on tonight. I think you’ll like it. Best, Dr. Ezra Fell</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p>
<p>Of course he signed his text messages.</p>
<p>Crowley downloaded the image. Somehow it helped.</p>
<p>Sitting on a plain white countertop, red and slightly out of focus, was an apple.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>One of the weirdest parts about my own trans experience stems from my trans experience isn't as bad as it could have been. My own mom and I are close--but she's flirting with TERFiness and my being genderqueer is a bit of a sticking point. Not enough to cause a falling-out, but enough to cause some pretty intense and tearful fights. It's a weird position to be in, that maintaining-a-relationship-but-still-fighting space. And that's the one Crowley's occupying, albeit in a WAY more intense situation.</p>
<p>I've struggled a lot with whether or not I wanted to include Crowley's deadname here, and with a couple other tropes that show up later on in the story. Ultimately I decided if it's cathartic for me as genderqueer, and if it feels right with the story, I'm putting it in here. </p>
<p>So! Understand that this is all coming from working out my own shit, not me trying to write an Authentic Trans Experience (TM) and deciding I need to tell Painful Stories for Plot Reasons.  It's from my own experiences.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Day Two: Librettos Due</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's a touchy subject, religion. Especially for Ezra Fell. Maybe this thing he's written isn't as good an idea as he thought...</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They gathered in one of the spare rooms of the LLC building. Ezra had shown up early to ensure each student had a small pamphlet of the printed librettos, which had the side effect of leaving him to pace and worry. Perhaps he ought to be a bit more nervous about his piece. Perhaps it hadn’t been as good an idea as he thought. Gabriel certainly wasn’t going to approve. Would he <em>be</em> at the performance? He’d taken this to improve his chances at tenure, but if Gabriel didn’t like it, it might do the opposite—</p><p>Well. What was it he told his students? Writing was an expression of truth, and conformist literature rarely made the canon. It was work from the heart that stayed with the soul.</p><p>What <em>Anthony</em> would think of the libretto was another matter.</p><p>The tables were arranged in a circle. Once they arrived, the librettists clustered like wallflowers on one side. Ezra wasn’t the only one with anxiety today: some of the writers were making notes on their librettos even as Ezra handed out the pamphlets. The composers mirrored them on the other in a reluctant company.</p><p>Anthony, as Ezra had predicted, was fashionably late.</p><p>“So good of you to join us!”</p><p>He looked caught-out, coffee in his hand. Ezra hadn’t meant to sound <em>quite</em> so chirpy. Especially since there were <em>two</em> coffees in the man’s hand, and he handed one to Ezra wordlessly. Ezra didn’t say a word—just took a sip.</p><p>Not coffee. Cocoa. He’d remembered. That did <em>things</em> to Ezra’s chest. How dare he be late, yes, but how <em>dare </em>he be late because he had remembered Ezra drank cocoa.</p><p>“Thank you, my dear,” said Ezra. His voice was low and soft despite himself.</p><p>“You’re very welcome, Ezra Fell,” said Anthony. “You owe me one tomorrow.”</p><hr/><p>The librettos were better than Crowley could have dreamed.</p><p>Sable had written a short sonnet called <em>Hunger</em>. It was meant to be acted in three ways, by all three singers, to show entirely different meanings.</p><p>Brian had written a plea of unrequited love. White was already making notes in the margins—they had an idea about an ecological message as an undercurrent to the words, which Crowley didn’t entirely <em>get</em> but sounded kind of cool. Brian nodded along as they workshopped it. The pair decided they’d meet up and do some rewriting afterwards.</p><p>Pepper had written a battle scene between two personalities of feminism—one femme, one butch—egged on by a character called Patriarchy. There was some disagreement among the crowd as to whether it should be a tragedy—with Patriarchy ultimately goading them into killing each other—or a comedy, with the feminists uniting to kill Patriarchy. Carmine couldn’t decide which she liked better, so Pepper decided to write another ending. They could decide once they’d seen them both.</p><p>Adam had been inspired by one of the activities yesterday: he’d written a scene about two boys staring down the end of the world. It wasn’t <em>entirely</em> devoid of his characteristic aliens and pirates—there was some ambiguity as to <em>how</em> the world was ending—but it was surprisingly poignant in the way only Adam could have pulled off.</p><p>“I’m not quite done yet,” he said, elbowing Warlock. “We hung out last night talking about inspiration and we got carried away. I’m not sure how it ends yet. I’ll go finish it right after this.”</p><p>And then it was time for Ezra Fell to share.</p><hr/><p>Ezra wasn’t expecting Anthony to stick around after the students left. The workshop had been productive. He was legitimately excited to see the finished products, and everyone had gone home inspired. All well and good. Everything was downright tickety-boo.</p><p>
  <em>He had no idea what Anthony thought of his piece.</em>
</p><p>It was driving him up a wall. He was a grown man, surely he didn’t need his peers’ approval, but Anthony had carefully praised each piece of writing and each idea, and then when it came to Ezra’s—<em>nothing.</em> There was barely a workshop. The man was completely unreadable.</p><p>Ezra didn’t say anything at first. He shuffled around the room, picking up leftover pencils and perfecting the angles of the chairs. If Anthony was going to wait for him, he’d have to use his words.</p><p>“It doesn’t feel finished,” said Anthony.</p><p>“Pardon me?”</p><p>“It’s good,” said Anthony. “A demon in the garden of Eden, questioning whether or not he did the right thing or the wrong one. I <em>love</em> the idea. But it doesn’t feel <em>finished.</em>”</p><p>Ezra must have pursed his lips, because Anthony laughed.</p><p>“Don’t look like that! I <em>like</em> it. Just want to workshop it a little. I think I know what happens next.”</p><hr/><p>“I always ask my students,” said Ezra Fell, stirring the cream into his second cocoa of the day, “<em>why</em> they chose the medium for their particular story. Why does this story need to be a novel? Why a poem? Why a graphic novel or a song? And I think the problem I’m having now, you see—I don’t know why it’s an <em>opera</em>. It’s just a monologue, really. A very short one.”</p><p>“That’s a good question,” said Crowley. He didn’t have coffee this time. It was too late for caffeine. Instead he had the printed libretto in his hands: he was tapping the end of his pen on the first word. DEMON.</p><p>Funny how things came around.</p><p>“You see, I asked myself—what do I think of, when I think of <em>opera</em>? And of course melodrama is the first thing that comes to mind. And I thought back to our little discussion on sin, and I thought, well, what if the serpent of Eden was sitting there wondering…” Ezra Fell fidgeted with his cake. “…You know, whether or not he made the right decision. Knowledge is never a <em>bad</em> thing, I’ve always thought.”</p><p>“I agree completely,” said Crowley.</p><p>“But that’s not very interesting, is it? Operatic monologues <em>exist</em>, of course, but if I’m honest I’ve always much preferred dialogue. My heart’s not in it.” Ezra Fell sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m talking your ear off. What idea did you have?”</p><p>“You’ve already said half of it.” Crowley wasn’t much of a <em>smiler</em>, generally. There was too much of the world on his shoulders. But something in the moment of synchronicity tugged a grin up at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got a demon, but you need an angel.”</p><p>Ezra Fell sighed. “Isn’t that somewhat cliché?”</p><p>“It’s <em>opera. </em>Cliché is the point!”</p><p>“That’s fair.”</p><p>“You’ve got a demon questioning if he did the right thing, yeah? Now you need an angel wondering if he did the wrong one. Split this guy into two characters and play them off each other. Great dynamic, I bet.”</p><p>Ezra Fell chuckled around the last bite of his cake. He dabbed his mouth and smiled—he was much more practiced at it than Crowley, this man <em>beamed</em>. “You know, you’re right. I’ll have those edits to you tonight. Thank you, Anthony.”</p><p>Crowley was not prepared for that. For someone this attractive saying his <em>name</em> with a smile like that. It nearly bowled him over. He choked on air. A little quick thinking turned it into a laugh.</p><p>“What<em> exactly</em> is so funny?”</p><p>Crowley said the first thing that came to mind. “Most people call me Crowley. Just Crowley. Not Anthony.”</p><p>“Why not? You introduced yourself as Anthony. Surely <em>someone</em> calls you Anthony. Should I call you something else?”</p><p>“I didn’t say that. I’ll get used to it.”</p><p>“Why does no one call you Anthony?”</p><p>“Eh. People pick up the last name easier for some reason.”</p><p>“<em>You</em> said I wouldn’t want to know who uses your name.” Ezra Fell pretended to think. Speaking of drama. “Your students don’t, surely. Your friends?”</p><p>“I’ve just got the department. They have plenty of other names for me. All worse.”</p><p>“Your parents, surely.” Crowley adjusted his sunglasses. He played it off.</p><p>“God, no. Never.”</p><p>“Your partner?”</p><p>“Very smooth,” said Crowley. “No partner.”</p><p>“<em>Really</em>.”</p><p>“Is that important information?” Crowley asked, peering over the tops of his sunglasses. Ezra Fell stumbled over an answer.</p><p>“I- I mean—”</p><p>One of the baristas swept in and took the empty tray. Suddenly the hustle and bustle of Café Nero was oppressively apparent, and they both looked away from each other.</p><p>“I could use an <em>actual</em> bite,” said Ezra Fell. “Would you like to get dinner? Perhaps we could write the ending together?”</p><hr/><p>“Somehow I wouldn’t imagine you getting dinner in a place like this.”</p><p>“Where would you imagine me?” Ezra Fell was as dainty a curry-eater as he was a cake-eater. Crowley was as spartan a dinner-eater as a coffee-getter. They sat on the same side of the table, the libretto between them.</p><p>It was untouched.</p><p>“I don’t know,” said Crowley, “some fancy sushi restaurant? The Ritz? Not a curry takeaway.”</p><p>“It’s not a takeaway if we didn’t take away,” said Ezra Fell. “We ate in.”</p><p>“Okay, a <em>curry</em>, then.”</p><p>“Fine dining isn’t limited to <em>fine dining</em>. I adore these little hole-in-the-wall gems. This is one of my favorite places, I’ll have you know.”</p><p>“It’s terrific,” said Crowley. “I can’t blame you.”</p><p>The door jingled.</p><p>“Oh lord,” said Ezra Fell. “Look who’s walked in. No, don’t—don’t <em>look</em>, look surreptitiously.”</p><p>“Surreptitiously?”</p><p>“You know. Over your shoulder. <em>Sly</em>. Like a secret agent.”</p><p>Crowley slunk down a little in his chair and cracked his back, leaning just enough to see the entrance. Facing away from them, looking at the menu, were Adam and Warlock. Crowley nearly fell over, then sat up straight as an arrow.</p><p>“<em>Are they holding hands</em>?”</p><p>“<em>You know I think they are.</em>” Ezra Fell was grinning like cherub. “Oh! You know, I thought, earlier today, they kept <em>looking </em>at each other—”</p><p>“I swear I’m Cupid himself,” said Crowley. “My students always end up fucking. Or <em>worse</em>.”</p><p>“Getting married?” asked Ezra Fell.</p><p>“Exactly. Like I’m some <em>Saint Valentine</em>.” The face and voice he did for the saint would have scared off any sane man—all snooty and posh—but <em>this one</em>, this jerk across the table, he just chuckled and looked away. “The irony is laughable.”</p><p>“How many of your students have gotten together, to warrant such a curse?”</p><p>“You’ve already met our Anathema and Newt,” he said, counting. “Then there was Marjorie, sweet old bag, ran off with a crazy bugger who audited one of my classes on the history of alt-rock. He had some <em>weird</em> ideas, that one, but I guess it charmed her. There was the <em>other</em> Adam, first year I was the professor, fell in love with a student in my Comp 100 class. Swear to god her name was <em>actually</em> Eve—”</p><p>“Oh dear.”</p><p>“Now these two, holding hands all over town—”</p><p>Ezra Fell was laughing. “We should actually work on this at some point,” he said, nudging the libretto towards Crowley. “Since you’re the saint—”</p><p>“Oh, that’s unfair—”</p><p>“—tell me what the angel did, that he thinks it was so wrong.”</p><p>Crowley laughed. He took the libretto from Ezra Fell and made a show of looking it over, tutting. The show dropped as ideas started clicking into place, and he picked up the pen, and he started scribbling in the margins.</p><p>“It was God, right?” he asked, with no context given.</p><p>“Sorry?”</p><p>“It was God who kicked Adam and Eve out of the garden? For the demon’s mistake, apparently.”</p><p>“It was, yes,” said Ezra Fell, not quite following.</p><p>“What sort of self-respecting angel lets that happen?” There was a tint of displacement to his voice. Crowley desperately hoped Ezra Fell didn’t notice. “Just sends two kids out into the desert without a qualm?”</p><p>“You’re right. I think I’d have qualms.”</p><p>“I would definitely have qualms.” Crowley wrote a few lines under the demon’s monologue. “I bet this angel does too.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>You know what I would love? I would *love* for AO3 to have some sort of scheduling function. I don't want to post everything as soon as it's written, but if I don't I have to put it in my calendar or I'll forget to post it altogether. Oops. Sorry, everyone. </p><p>Shout out to everyone who's left comments so far--you guys are AMAZING. I am terribly awkward with comments and will either reply to ALL OF THEM AT ONCE or completely ignore them in a fit of shyness so please, please do not read too much into my replies. It's like the fanfiction equivalent of <a href="https://youtu.be/YZtiDJqVYwk?t=11">that scene in Talladega Nights. </a>But seriously they are wonderful and incredibly inspiring, especially while I'm working on my dissertation.</p><p>Which is going great. But also everything I write turns into alphabet soup and I don't know what letters are and English is a lie.</p><p>Anyway--not <i>all</i> the updates from here on out will be full chapters, and I'm sorry about that! There's still plenty of story left, but I also want to share the librettos. If anyone has any musical ability and wants to compose for them, feel free, because they would be genuinely cool to see as opera.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Libretto: HUNGER</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sable's libretto from the workshop.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you're into music or singing, *please* feel free to be a composer on this and all future librettos presented in this piece. Just tag me or comment or something so I can see it!</p><p>Like opera, this fic works best as a collaborative effort.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>The sonnet is sung three times, by three characters: AMBITION, LOVE, and HUNGER.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>SINGER</p><p>A thin red need is clawing at my bones<br/>with thin red hands, like spider-webs of cold<br/>which blossom in my chest and chain me home—<br/>Where I’ll remain for good, til I grow old.</p><p>A thin red need is clutching at my heart:<br/>leaves lines like wine upon a wall of glass.<br/>My satisfaction clear behind the art<br/>of fortressed wealth and opulence surpassed</p><p>by nothing, save my desp’rate starving eyes,<br/>my clawing hands upon transparent walls.<br/>The hunger at my core turns all to wine;<br/>the paucity inside turns clay to gold.</p><p>My hunger—it is real, and it is named.<br/>My anger won’t be stopped and won’t be tamed.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Note for composer: works best with repeated or overlapping lines. HUNGER should sing last and loudest. Then cut to black. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Posting this while I procrastinate working on my dissertation. One month and I still gotta put the beast through beta reading and editing--and it's not done yet. Wish me luck. I'll try to hear you over my low-key screaming.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Day Three: Scores Due</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sometimes things get lost in translation. Sometimes translation picks up on subtext the original author didn't even know was there.</p><p>Anyway, Crowley wrote some music.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Short chapter, mostly cute, but there's a long one on the way.</p><p>Warnings specific for this chapter: some deadnaming, implied misgendering.</p><p>Things get a little more intense next chapter, but I tried to offset the intense stuff with fluff. This is a lighthearted romantic fic, and any cathartic telling off of mothers will overshadow the terfuckery.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>THE WORD OF GOD</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>This is just like you, Rachel. Every time you say you’re going to come back to the family you just LEAVE again. I’m your mother. I can’t handle this. I need you to call me back.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I know you’re upset about the phone call last night but I’m worried about you and I can’t just NOT say something.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Call me back.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>He was hung over.</p><p>No, not that type of hung over. Crowley drank, and often to excess, but last night he’d been writing music. Far, <em>far</em> too late into the morning.</p><p>Crowley’s alarm went off.</p><p>He threw his phone off the nightstand, instantly regretted it when he heard the charging cord make a frightening noise, and fell out of bed trying to inspect it without actually waking up. The end result was an Anthony Crowley who was <em>dragged</em> into the waking world, a phone with a bruised ego after a moment of verbal abuse, and a charging cord that had the gall to be perfectly fine.</p><p>Crowley had no idea if the score was any good. He suspected it would be. He suspected it was one of the best things he’d ever written in his life.</p>
<hr/><p>He would be <em>damned</em> if Anthony beat him to the composition workshop, but Ezra could not find the building. It was hidden. It was nonexistent. Someone had placed a <em>spell</em> on the place, something a la Harry Potter, and Ezra was half-ready to throw himself into the nearest brick pylon in desperate hope before he ran into Anthony on the street.</p><p>“Need a hand, Ezra Fell?”</p><p>Ezra handed Crowley his coffee without comment. Full name, every time. Said in that long English drawl, emphasis on the <em>ell</em> all drawn out. “Of course I know exactly where I am.”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“But if you’re walking into the building, I suppose I could accompany you.”</p><p>“The building?” Crowley looked around, a perfect façade of unassuming bewilderment. “And which building is that?”</p><p>“The <em>music</em> building, Anthony.”</p><p>“Which is… which one, again? Exactly?”</p><p>Ezra tutted.</p><p>“Do you mean the one on the other side of the block? Out back behind the bagel shop?”</p><p>It had to be a trap. Anthony was teasing him. “Of course not. Stop having me on.”</p><p>“Shame. That’s the one I’m going to. See you after class.” Anthony grinned like a snake and walked off, coffee in hand.</p><p>“Oh—<em>really</em>, Anthony!” Ezra followed at a jog.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>
    <em>3 MISSED CALLS -- THE WORD OF GOD</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>1 VOICEMAIL -- THE WORD OF GOD</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<hr/><p>It <em>was</em> on the other side of the block, out behind the bagel shop. Crowley wasn’t sure why the music department embarrassed the University badly enough that it needed to be tucked away where no one could find it, but here they were. Up the stairs, down a twisted corridor, and into the classroom where the students were waiting.</p><p>Their work was coming along nicely.</p><p>Wensleydale had fallen in love with Sable’s sonnet. His score danced through the poem’s meter in circulating themes, tying together the three characters—Ambition, Love, and Hunger—in a round of the last few lines. Hunger sang last, low and clear, in a note that made gooseflesh splash down Crowley’s arms. They changed a few words for the clarity of the singers, but he was impressed.</p><p>White had added a sinister note to Brian’s love song. Brian was not amused. Ezra Fell proved talented at conflict resolution.</p><p>Carmine and Pepper still had not decided on an ending. Carmine had written two scores, one for each. The feminist victory was triumphant and proud; the tragedy was mournful and touching. The group spent a good twenty minutes discussing everyone’s favorites, but the entire cohort was split down the middle and constantly changing sides. Eventually they decided to make a few tweaks to each and perhaps see what they thought when everyone saw it live.</p><p>Adam threw a wrench in the works. Of course he did. The kid was a genius.</p><p>“Can we act in it?”</p><p>Anathema and Newt exchanged a look.</p><p>“Not sing, I mean,” said Adam, “my voice is shit, but could Warlock and I act in it? I thought—see, the singing is the thoughts the characters are having, but the lines they’re saying to each other are spoken. It needs four characters.”</p><p>“What do you think?” Anathema asked Crowley. “You’re the composer.”</p><p>Crowley shrugged. “We’ve got two days to rehearse. Don’t see anything wrong with putting it on the stage and seeing what happens.”</p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>
    <em>THE WORD OF GOD</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Rachel. Pick UP.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I swear if I don’t hear from you by tomorrow. Easter is NEXT WEEK-END. If you don’t give us something to tell the relatives you are uninvited.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>Crowley barely remembered what he’d done with Ezra Fell’s piece. It had been late at night, and he’d been coming down from a fight with his mother. The whole experience had been emotional and a bit out-of-body. He hadn’t worried much about showing it—after all, he’d have time to edit anything incoherent tonight.</p><p>Then he pulled it up.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Oh, he’d forgotten this was the direction he chose to go it.</p><p>Oh <em>fuck.</em></p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>
    <em>THE WORD OF GOD</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>If I don’t hear back I’m coming to the University myself, you understand? God only knows what you’ve done to yourself.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>The students filtered out and Crowley lost the ability to effectively avoid Ezra Fell’s eyes.</p><p>They were <em>horrible</em> eyes. Just the worst. Pale blue. Big. These long lashes a man could just lose himself in. Worst of all, they were piercing, and they hadn’t left Crowley since they workshopped the score. Ezra Fell hadn’t said a word during the critique—hard to fault him for that, Crowley was guilty of that too—but now they were alone in the classroom and those eyes were on him and.</p><p>This was <em>awful.</em></p><p>“So,” said Ezra Fell. “Would you like to get cakes again? I have some thoughts on—”</p><p>“Sorry. I can’t. I’ve got—” Crowley fished around for an excuse. “I’ve got this. Uh. There’s this whole row going on. With my mother. I need to deal with it.” Sure. That would work. That would be fine. There was always a row on, but Ezra Fell didn’t need to know that.</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“Mmhm.” Crowley had already put away his things. His bag was on his shoulder. He had nothing to fiddle with, nothing to keep him away from those eyes. And Ezra Fell was between him and the door. It was downright rude, the way he brushed past his friend to get through the door, but what choice did he have? Was he supposed to just stay there and let that <em>look</em> peel back his defenses?</p><p>“It’s just—<em>Anthony</em>—”</p><p>The name hit Crowley in the chest. Ezra Fell could have bodily lassoed him and tied him to the classroom, and Crowley would have been less tethered to the man. He had no choice. He stopped leaving, and he turned to look.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“It’s just you turned it into a love song.”</p><p>A beat.</p><p>“Yeah. I did.”</p><p>Ezra Fell was dithering.</p><p>“Did you like it?” Crowley asked.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“Okay. It’s just—”</p><p>“You didn’t like it.”</p><p>“No! No, I loved it. I <em>loved</em> it, Anthony.”</p><p>“It’s not too trite?”</p><p>“It’s perfect.”</p><p>“Okay. So what’s the problem?”</p><p>“I just—oh, never mind, this is a terrible time to ask. You’ve got so much on your plate. It can wait.”</p><p>Crowley didn’t have a response to that. He just waited. The token excuse to leave passed unused. Ezra Fell sighed and looked away.</p><p>“I just thought perhaps you might like to grab dinner more formally. Perhaps tomorrow night.”</p><p>A beat.</p><p>“Are you asking me on a <em>date</em>?”</p><p>“I’m sorry, are you <em>declining</em>?”</p><p>“No!”</p><p>“Well, then, <em>yes.</em>”</p><p>“All right. Fine.”</p><p>“Excellent.”</p><p>“Great.”</p><p>“Tomorrow night, then.”</p><p>“Tomorrow night.”</p><p>“Good.” Ezra Fell hesitated. “Good luck. With your mother. I don’t know what the row’s about, but… Well. Family is a blessing and all that, but.”</p><p>“She’s a right nut,” said Crowley, cracking a smile. “But thank you.”</p><p>“You’re welcome.” That look of relief. That smile. “I’m sorry to bother you when—”</p><p>“Don’t,” said Crowley. Suddenly the weight of the unread texts in his pocket didn’t feel like such a burden. “My day’s looking up.”</p>
<hr/><p>“I have to work, you know.”</p><p>“Yeah, I know, I got your messages. Just—right—listen—<em>Mum.</em> Just tell them the truth.”</p><p>“I don’t care.”</p><p>“I really, truly, absolutely do not care.”</p><p>“It’s not my fault you didn’t tell them I transitioned. If you want a relationship with me, you need to—”</p><p>“Mum.”</p><p>“<em>Mum.</em>”</p><p>“If you’re going to be like this then—fine, terrific, we don’t have to talk at all. See you at the next funeral.”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“Right, I’m hanging up now. God. Goodbye, Mum.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey guess who finished their rough draft of their dissertation today?</p><p>THIS GUY.</p><p>It's fucking fantastic, too.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Libretto: From the Planet to Her Lover</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Brian and White's libretto from the workshop--finished edition.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>EARTH stands alone on the stage.</em>
</p><p>EARTH<br/>Darling— oh, darling I will always love you, I will always provide. Darling— oh, darling I will always give you all I am with nothing left to hide. <br/>Darling, oh darling of my breath and heart and bones— <br/>Darling, I will love you—</p><p>
  <em>HUMANITY enters.</em>
</p><p>HUMANITY<br/>And I will always call you home—</p><p>EARTH<br/>And I will always love you—</p><p>
  <em>Music fades.</em>
</p><p>HUMANITY<br/>And I will take your bounty—</p><p>EARTH<br/>And I will always love you—</p><p>HUMANITY<br/>(stepping forward, away from her)<br/>And I will claim your lands—</p><p>EARTH<br/>And I will always love you—</p><p>HUMANITY<br/>(following)<br/>My presence will spread wide and far<br/>And I will leave you for the stars—</p><p>
  <em>Humanity exits. EARTH stands alone on the stage.</em>
</p><p>EARTH<br/>And I will always love you—<br/>Oh, I will always love you—<br/>Darling, how I have loved you…</p><p>
  <em>Music fades.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>GUESS WHO'S BACK BITCHES.</p><p>And by that I mean I have this and one more chapter written, so I'm gonna post 'em. One today, one tomorrow. Hiatus is still tentatively still on for a couple good reasons, which are A., I graduated with Distinction from my Master's program and therefore B., am now a PHD STUDENT! And therefore my writing spoons are very carefully distributed.</p><p>I've been on a fanfic kick this week, though, so y'all get a libretto and a chapter. Don't expect anything like, regular, but I do intend to finish this one. I have the outline and wrote Crowley/Zira's libretto already, so I at least have to get to that point...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Day Four: The First Practice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Crowley and Aziraphale go on a date.</p><p>Content warnings: transphobia, homophobia mentions, encounter with a TERF-y mother, one single use of the word "dick",  descriptions of transitioning for Crowley.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warnings: transphobia, homophobia mentions, encounter with a TERF-y mother, one single use of the word "dick",  descriptions of transitioning for Crowley.</p><p>This was so gratifying to write, but be aware of that content going in. Rest of my notes are at the end.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Things were coming together.</p><p>The purpose of today was less about staging and more about trying out the music on a real voice, now that the scores were complete. It went well. Really.</p><p>White and Brian were in minor disagreement, but other than that the other pairs seemed to be getting along swimmingly. Sable and Wensleydale did their own thing on their laptops when it wasn’t their turn—to be honest, there wasn’t much to improve. Crowley should not have been surprised at their efficiency, but he was.</p><p>Which was fine, because Pepper and Carmine went into overtime: the problem of the ending was still in full debate. Adam and Warlock were lost in their own world, scribbling notes in the margins of their libretto. Whether these were notes on the work or to each other was up for debate.</p><p>Crowley was completely oblivious to <em>all</em> of this, because <em>he had a date tonight.</em> Newt suggested staging ideas, and Crowley did not write them down. Anathema asked for minor score changes, and Crowley scribbled them in on autopilot. Dr. Ezra Full-Name Fell kept sipping the cocoa Crowley bought him—it was his turn—and glancing his way. Their eyes kept meeting. Crowley wanted to melt into the floor.</p><p>The thing was, Ezra Fell didn’t <em>know.</em></p><p>Crowley passed. Crowley passed well. Crowley had passed well before top surgery, before T, frankly before <em>binding</em>. He’d been lucky. Hell, the one time he’d been harassed for being trans, he’d been mistaken as MTF after a drag show. Crowley spent a lot of time as coming out as gay but had not come out as trans in <em>years.</em> He just hadn’t needed to. It was a massive privilege.</p><p>But if he started seeing someone, coming out was non-negotiable. You <em>had</em> to come out to someone you were dating. For physical reasons—not that Crowley was <em>opposed</em> to an ace relationship—and more importantly for emotional ones. For one or two dates? For a friendship? Not something another person needed to know about. But someone you <em>liked</em>, someone you could actually see yourself having <em>something</em> with—Ezra Fell needed to know.</p><p>Crowley didn’t need a partner. But if he was going to have a partner, he needed to know that partner would be supportive. There was no point in dates and flirtation and falling in love if the man was just going to run off the second Crowley came out of the closet. It was fine when he ran into a gay man that really only liked dick—disappointing but whatever—but sometimes they got angry. Sometimes they got aggressive.</p><p>What if—</p><p>Crowley couldn’t imagine what an angry Ezra Fell looked like. But he tried. He tried through Brian’s sad ecological love song (although he approved of the edits, not a dry eye in the house). He tried through the sonnet on hunger. And the feminism libretto debate. And the love song Adam wrote. And then it was <em>his </em>turn and—</p><p>Crowley had never heard it sung before. Not properly. Sure, he’d sung a few words while he was composing, but he was not an opera singer. He was a composer. This was—</p><p>Oh, this <em>was.</em></p><p>At first the demon was played by the baritone—Vimes—and the angel was the soprano—Esme. It was beautiful as it was. Then Adam spoke up with an idea to switch the roles—a baritone angel and a soprano demon—and the work <em>sang.</em></p><p>It was magic. The entire room was entranced.</p><p>When it was over, Crowley glanced at Ezra Fell. He realized he’d been avoiding his gaze all day—and, in the same moment, for the life of him he couldn’t remember why.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He’d grown up listening to music—oh, and what a silly thought. Who didn’t grow up listening to music? Just as one grew up with food, or with culture. Ezra had grown up listening to <em>classical</em> music. Church music. Lots of celestial harmonies. As it was, he’d sort of stepped away from all that when he left the church—he still listened, of course, but most of the music he liked predated the last century. He just couldn’t get behind be-bop.</p><p>This was <em>beautiful.</em></p><p>When it was over, Ezra glanced at Anthony. He realized he’d been avoiding his gaze all day—and, in the same moment, for the life of him he couldn’t remember why.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The students filtered out. The vocalists lingered, chatting about this and that—Vimes complaining to Esme about London, and the old woman laughing, saying Edinburgh was as far as she’d come out of her Highland village—and the professors lingered awkwardly. It was silly, of course. They already had evening plans. And yet they each puttered, flipping through papers, putting things away slowly, until the singers had wandered out. Ezra glanced at Anthony and gestured towards the door. <em>I’ll walk you out</em>, his gesture said.</p><p>Now that he <em>looked</em> at Anthony, the poor man looked terrified. Ezra was momentarily concerned until he glimpsed his own face in a mirror and—well. Anthony was not alone.</p><p>“I should tell you,” said Ezra, on the stairs, after a full thirty seconds of silence, “it’s been quite a while since I’ve been out with someone. I… might be a little rusty.”</p><p>“You’re telling me,” said Anthony. “I haven’t been on a date since my thirties, I think.”</p><p>“Oh! I’ve got you beat.”</p><p>“Really? What’s your record-holding last date?”</p><p>“I was twenty-two. And technically,” said Ezra, politely holding the door, “it was an engagement dinner.”</p><p>Crowley did not go through the door. He stared.</p><p>“After you, Anthony?”</p><p>“Engagement? What did he do to you?”</p><p>“<em>She</em> was rather more understanding than she had any right to be,” said Ezra. “I’ll see you at seven?”</p><p>“You cannot leave me on that cliffhanger.”</p><p>“I can and I will. There is a hot cocoa at Elephant &amp; Bagels with my name on it.” Ezra gestured at the bagel shop. “Unless you care to join me?”</p><p>“Lead the way.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“We were basically engaged at fifteen. And we were close—she was a lovely woman! If I hadn’t been gay I do think we would have been happy—”</p><p>“Agh, no, not at all. You can’t make a choice like <em>that</em> at fifteen. If I was still with my boyfriend from that age, I would be living in Midwestern America on a cow farm.”</p><p>“Oh lord.”</p><p>“I liked his accent.” Crowley leaned back in his seat. For the umpteenth time, Ezra wondered what his problem was with chairs. He knew from the students that the Chair Thing was something of a newfangled expression of homosexuality, but Crowley abused them with the practice of someone who had been doing it far before <em>that</em> little oddity came into being.</p><p>“<em>Anyway</em>,” said Ezra, trying to ignore the way Crowley stretched his arms, “she asked me to a movie, our parents went to the same church, and before I knew it, everyone just… assumed.”</p><p>Crowley sighed.</p><p>“I broke up with her three weeks before the wedding. She was <em>terribly</em> understanding. She had no right. I should have broken things off earlier, but it was such a <em>definite</em> choice.”</p><p>“I get that.”</p><p>“But the longer I waited, the worse it got, and… well. The line had to be drawn somewhere.”</p><p>“I <em>genuinely</em> understand.” What was that expression on Crowley’s face? There was a tender quality to his smile. “You did what you had to do, right? And—how’s she doing now? Did you stay in touch?”</p><p>Ezra grinned. This was his favorite part of the story. “She’s lovely. She and her wife adopted a little girl last year.”</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>, surprise ending! Go her!”</p><p>“She <em>was</em> in love with me, but turns out she’s bisexual.” That was important. Ezra had still broken her heart—just because she’d married a woman didn’t let him off the hook. “I was the first person she told. We’re still quite close.”</p><p>“I’m not surprised in the least.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>They walked across town to ‘meet up’ at Dishoom, which meant of course that they made plans to meet and walked here together anyway, after the bagel shop closed for the evening. It was a lovely Indian place—up north, in Newtown, with what Ezra Fell swore was the best Indian food in the city. Crowley had to admit he was right. They’d shared more food than he’d ever eaten in one sitting in his <em>life</em>—daal and paneer pineapple tikka and garlic naan and a chicken tikka roll that was apparently based off some sort of street food.</p><p>Ezra Fell was a traveler, apparently. Who knew. And they’d been to all the same places! Ezra Fell went to India for the publishers, Crowley went to India for a yoga retreat. (There had not been much street food. And different parts of India—Delhi for Ezra Fell, Tapovan for Crowley.) Ezra Fell went to Moscow for a conference on Tolstoy, Crowley went to Moscow for a residency with the conservatory. Ezra Fell went to New York for an international writers’ workshop, Crowley went for the jazz scene.</p><p>They’d missed each other in New York by a <em>week</em>. It felt like they’d spent their lives chasing each other around the globe.</p><p>Crowley let himself relax. Just a little. Not all the way—not until he was Out—but enough to enjoy himself. He liked this man.</p><p>His pocket buzzed. Crowley <em>thought</em> he was slick, turning it off with a quick glance and some fast button-pressing, but Ezra Fell caught him at it.</p><p>“I meant to ask—is everything all right? With your mother?”</p><p>Ooh. Huh. How to explain <em>that.</em></p><p>“It <em>was</em>,” said Crowley. “I don’t think it is anymore. We, uh, we’d started to reconnect. I fell out with my family in my 20s, and… they reached out a few months ago. I was supposed to drive down to London on Sunday for Easter dinner, actually. But Mum’s gone… a bit…”</p><p>“Mad?”</p><p>“<em>Feral</em> was the word that comes to mind.”</p><p>“Ah.” Ezra Fell’s fingers played on the stem of his glass. “I… I fell out with my parents too. After the engagement. They were… not accepting.”</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Is that…”</p><p>“Sort of. The gay thing they were okay with, actually. Mum’s just…” Hoo boy. “I should probably… tell you something. Ah. I’m…”</p><p>Ezra Fell leaned forward. His eyes were so <em>earnest</em>. Like he was excited to learn more about Crowley, to be confided in. Crowley couldn’t take it.</p><p>“…Give me a minute, actually? I gotta hit the… yeah. Uh. Give me a sec.”</p><p>And he ran. To the bathroom. Like he was on fire or something.</p><p>Like a coward.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Oh, that poor boy. They all had secrets—surely it couldn’t be <em>that</em> bad. Everyone had skeletons in their closets. Ezra had his failed engagement. Unless Crowley had a secret spouse somewhere, Ezra couldn’t imagine what it would be.</p><p>Ezra leaned back. He glanced behind him—towards the bathroom, just for a second. And then he turned back to the table and jumped.</p><p>There was a woman sitting at the table.</p><p>She was clearly Crowley’s mother. The same red hair, the same intense eyes. She had made herself at home in his chair, leaning back just like he did—though it came across more <em>dominating</em> than anything like Crowley’s sprawl—and she was staring right at Ezra.</p><p>“Ah- may I help you?”</p><p>“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, in a tone that implied she was nothing of the sort, “but I noticed you’re here with Professor Crowley.”</p><p>“I am, yes.”</p><p>“Is this in a romantic capacity?”</p><p>Ezra was already wary, but there was <em>nothing</em> good that would follow a line like that. “Yes. We’re on a date. And it’s going <em>quite</em> well.”</p><p>“And has she told you what she is yet?”</p><p>The pronoun was… not quite like a key. It did, however, turn the lock of mystery, and a lot of things fell into place. She. Crowley was <em>not</em> a she. Anyone who bothered to talk to him for ten minutes could tell that.</p><p>“He had not, no. But to be perfectly honest, Miss, that’s none of your business, and it’s none of <em>mine </em>until he’s ready.” Ezra leaned forward, fingers laced upon the table. “May I offer you some advice, Miss?”</p><p>“It’s Mrs.—"</p><p>“I won’t be calling you by his name.” Ezra took a deep breath. “Your <em>son</em> is a delightful man. He is kind, he is talented, and he is a wonderful inspiration to his students. You have many, many things to be proud of. And if you cannot accept him as he is—which given the fact that you just <em>outed</em> him to me, I suspect is a challenge for you—if you cannot accept him as he is, perhaps he is better off without you in his life.”</p><p>“So he’s told you—”</p><p>“He seemed to be looking forward to dinner on Sunday. I need you to understand that he cannot show up at your table as someone he is not.”</p><p>“And how am I supposed to explain that? My daughter shows up dressed like a man?”</p><p>“If you’d asked me that thirty years ago? Quite frankly, I may have been sympathetic. It’s hard on a parent, I’m sure. But you have had <em>thirty years</em> to get used to it. That’s more than enough time to mourn the daughter you lost, and get to know the son you gained.”</p><p>“He’s <em>undermining</em> me. I understand you’re infatuated, but surely—you must understand how unforgiveable that is.”</p><p>“Well then, unforgiveable? That’s what he is. And I have never liked him more.” Ezra flashed her a beatific smile. “I’ll have to ask you to leave before he returns from the bathroom. Like I said, the date’s going well. I don’t need you driving it south.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Crowley froze from his vantage point behind the bar.</p><p>That was his mother.</p><p>
  <em>That was his mother.</em>
</p><p>Talking. To. Ezra. Fell.</p><p>Of course he trusted him. He <em>liked</em> him. Surely he wouldn’t care and it would all be fine. Ezra Fell was <em>good.</em></p><p>But that was his mother. And Ezra was facing away from the stairs. And for the second time that day, Crowley ran.</p><p>And he didn’t come back to the table.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Have I mentioned my mom gets a little TERF-y when I don't keep an eye on her? We're actually very close, but that's a... sticking point for the two of us.</p><p>Actually, she came over here to the UK for about five and a half months during a Covid lull. We got to be neighbors for the first time in my adult life, which was really nice. We had some solid discussions on gender and I've started being openly nonbinary around her, which is... hard. And tougher since if I'm honest with myself I'm a trans guy. A really femme trans guy, but... definitely a trans guy.</p><p>We have NOT had that talk yet. She's still wrapping her head around nonbinary. But... baby steps.</p><p>Anyway, with this chapter we have three librettos and two days left, and maybe an epilogue if I'm feeling fancy.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Libretto: Feminism</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Pepper and Carmine's libretto from the workshop--finished edition.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Note from the creators: this works best with POC on stage, but we only have white performers, so do better, Uni. WE SEE YOU. (Although Patriarchy works better as white and English or American.) Also we do NOT condone the “basically a man” language used by Patriarchy but it was in character. Reminder that ALL WOMEN ARE WOMEN and LOVE WINS and TRANS RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS thank you very much &lt;3</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Three characters: BUTCH, FEMME, and PATRIARCHY. BUTCH and FEMME stand on opposite sides of the stage.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>BUTCH<br/>Hey, did you hear the latest news?</p><p>FEMME<br/>It’s the old news.</p><p>BUTCH<br/>It’s the same news.</p><p>BOTH<br/>Boys’ club.</p><p>FEMME<br/>Hey, did you hear the latest outrage?</p><p>BUTCH<br/>It’s on the same page.</p><p>BOTH<br/>Boys’ club.</p><p>
  <em>PATRIARCHY sneaks on stage, creeping like a cartoon villain.</em>
</p><p>FEMME<br/>Sometimes I wish they’d tell me what their secrets are—</p><p>PATRIARCHY (sneaky)<br/>She knows.</p><p>FEMME<br/>Or like I wish they’d let us take a real shot, a true shot—</p><p>PATRIARCHY (sneaky, pointing at BUTCH)<br/>“He” knows.</p><p>BUTCH<br/>I’m as much a woman as the next girl, get real.</p><p>PATRIARCHY<br/>Did you hear the news?</p><p>
  <em>BOTH pause.</em>
</p><p>PATRIARCHY<br/>Did you hear the scandal?<br/>(pauses)<br/>Do you know what she said?<br/>What she said?</p><p>FEMME<br/>What did she say?</p><p>BUTCH<br/>Yeah, <em>what did I say?</em></p><p>PATRIARCHY<br/>She thinks that you’re flighty.<br/>(FEMME gasps)<br/>She thinks that you might as well be a man.<br/>(BUTCH glares)<br/>She secretly hates you.</p><p>
  <em>BOTH gearing up to fight.</em>
</p><p>PATRIARCHY<br/>And I’m safe again.</p><p>
  <em>PATRIARCHY bows, song ends.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I want to take a moment to be frustrated by the fact that TERFS co-opt the feminist movement so deeply.</p><p>I'm a feminist. I was AFAB, but I'm not a woman now--I'm non-binary, probably male if I'm honest with myself. While I was writing this I had a week of dealing with some... not-fun statements about being a traitor to "my gender" and it was... not great.</p><p>So fuck TERFs, I guess is what I want to say. </p><p>In unrelated news, thank you so much to EVERYONE who leaves kudos and comments and everything. I always get really anxious about answering (you can't just copy-paste "aaaa thank you" a million times right? can you?) but please know that I read every single comment and it buoys me up every time. I love you and I love this fandom, and you're all wonderful, and last week was tough so reading all the comments (even from last year) just makes things so much better.</p><p>So thank you, and next chapter is written--should be out soon.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Day Five: Dress Rehearsals</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Today the students have the performers rehearse their operas--and Crowley is nowhere to be seen.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong> <em>Dr. Ezra Full-Name-Only</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Anthony, I know you must be livid with me. I’m so sorry. I know I was out of line talking to your mother like that. I don’t know what came over me, it was like all the things I’ve always wanted to say to my parents came out at once. I am so sorry. I understand if you cannot forgive me. Best, Dr. Ezra Fell</em>
</p><p>sent 11:27 PM</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>Dr. Ezra Full-Name-Only</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>It occurs to me that the previous text was perhaps egocentric. I apologize for that as well. My baggage with my family is not your load to bear. What I did was unforgiveable.<br/>
Sincerest apologies, Dr. Ezra Fell</em>
</p><p>Sent 11:45 PM</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>Dr. Ezra Full-Name-Only</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>I promise I will stop texting you incessantly, it’s just that it occurs to me that if your mother is as I assumed her to be I’m somewhat concerned for your safety. Of course you have no obligation to assuage my fears but I do genuinely hope you’re all right. And my apologies again for insulting your mother just now. I will see you tomorrow, and I suppose Saturday, and then never again if that’s your wish.<br/>
- Ezra Fell</em>
</p><p>sent 12:22 AM</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>Dr. Ezra Full-Name-Only</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>I hope it’s not. I did have fun.<br/>
- Ezra</em>
</p><p>sent 12:25 AM</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Ezra wasn’t sure what to do with the extra coffee. Crowley wasn’t at work—although Anathema <em>had</em> talked to him, over the phone, he’d called in sick—and it had been Ezra’s turn to bring the coffee and cocoa, and now there was just an extra cup. Sitting there. On the table.</p><p>Alone.</p><p>“Well, I don’t suppose you like coffee? We’ve been trading off.”</p><p>“Never touch the stuff,” said Anathema. “I’m more of a tea person. But, uh, Newt?”</p><p>“Yeah, I like coffee. I’ll take a free one.”</p><p>“Wonderful! Then it won’t go to waste.” Ezra beamed.</p><p>Newt took a sip and made a face reminiscent of a dog who’d just licked a lemon. “Why am I not surprised he takes it black?”</p><p>“There’s sugar and cream at the station in the Student Union,” said Ezra. It was a quick walk, just next door. Newt ran out, holding the coffee like a hand grenade.</p><p>“He prefers frappuccinos,” said Anathema. “I keep telling him everyone loves sugar and cream—I mean, everyone but Dr. Crowley, I guess—but he gets so <em>embarrassed.</em>”</p><p>“Ah. Yes. Quite right.”</p><p>“You okay, professor?”</p><p>“Hm? Perfectly, yes. Tip-top.”</p><p>“You sure?”</p><p>“Absolutely tickety-boo.”</p><p>“Because I have <em>never</em> seen you look at your phone before. Like, ever.”</p><p>Ezra tucked his phone back into his pocket. For the third time? Fourth? It was ridiculous. Patently <em>ridiculous</em>. Crowley no longer wished to see him. And to be frank, their jobs were pretty much done. It would be fun to see the operas performed, of course, but at this point it was all the students and the performers at work—the music and writing were finished.</p><p>There was no reason Crowley had to show up.</p><p>Ezra sat there.</p><p>The music hall <em>echoed.</em> Which—yes—that is what it was designed to do. And it was quite good at echoing as the students coordinated their operas, without Ezra’s input, which gave Ezra <em>plenty</em> of time to sit and panic quietly in the back of the room.</p><p>The thing was, he didn’t <em>know.</em></p><p>He had assumed, given what he knew of Crowley’s mother and what he’d seen of her behavior, that she would not be welcome. But that was <em>such</em> an assumption. He didn’t truly know the nature of their relationship. And unless they were on <em>truly</em>, absolutely <em>god-awful</em> terms, what Ezra had said would be a massive overstep of boundaries.</p><p>(Crowley still hadn’t texted him back.)</p><p>One could dislike a parent and still consider it an overstep to see her insulted.</p><p>One could have a <em>difficult</em> relationship with a parent that required a delicate hand, and Ezra had used a broadsword.</p><p>One could <em>need</em> something from a parent—after all, Ezra didn’t know Crowley’s reasons for trying to reconnect—and if <em>that </em>had been the case Ezra was sure he’d mucked it all up.</p><p>(Crowley still hadn’t texted him back.)</p><p>It was such a stupid thing to do. It was so <em>out of character</em> for him. He’d heard that awful woman and those awful words and—<em>oh damn it all</em> he’d just felt so <em>angry.</em> So Crowley was trans—what of it? He’d dared to be himself and she just kicked him out? Express your gender and you deserve the boot?</p><p>He’d left his home on his own terms, yes. But Ezra knew that fear, that <em>unjust</em> knot of anxiety that just—<em>burned like sulfur—</em></p><p>Crowley still hadn’t texted him back.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>Dr. Ezra Full-Name-Only</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Entirely professional text, I assure you: I just wanted to update you on today’s progress. We’ve staged the Hunger scene successfully—it looks quite good! Pepper and Carmine have decided to simply cut off their endings altogether and leave it up to the audience to decide what happens next, which is perhaps as good as we could ask for. Adam and Warlock are up next and Adam has brought quite a lot of set dressing. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Ezra</em>
</p><p>seen 12:04 PM</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Seen. <em>Seen!</em> Well, at least someone was looking at Crowley’s phone, at least. Ezra knew he was being ridiculous, but the image of Crowley’s mother hurling him into a car and driving away with him duct-taped to the backseat kept playing in Ezra’s mind.</p><p>It was of course quite stupid. Far more likely that Crowley simply never wanted to talk to him again, which was… Selfishly worse.</p><p>Well. Ezra never claimed to be an angel. He wouldn’t be very good at it.</p><p>The students were invested. Anathema was passionate. Newt was terribly out of his league.</p><p>His pocket buzzed halfway through Adam-and-Warlock’s practice. Ezra was sitting in the back, trying to lose himself in the rehearsal and failing miserably, and when he got the text he nearly fell out of his chair. Rudeness be damned, he pulled his phone out to look.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>Anthony</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>just off phone w/ mum. bitch.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Oh. Oh lord. Was that <em>bitch</em> meant for him or-</p><p>Well-</p><p><em>What</em>?</p><p>Another text.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>Anthony</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>sorry ive been out of contact</em>
</p><p>
  <em>saw her and it was like i was a kid again and you were talking and dshdsjhsdg</em>
</p><p>
  <em>anyway: you. NOTHING to apologise for dont even think it</em>
</p><p>
  <em>im the one who ran off like a fuckin arse</em>
</p><p>
  <em>too scared to look at my phone</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and then she called me and chewed me out for you calling HER out</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and fuck i am SO sorry and i am such an idiot</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Oh. <em>Oh.</em> Ezra’s heart melted all over his face. He felt the weight roll off his shoulders in the form of <em>physically</em> sinking into his chair. Thank heaven everyone was paying attention to the performers.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>Dr. Ezra Full-Name-Only</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>I assumed you heard what I said to her! You have nothing to apologize for, to be perfectly frank I would have deserved it after speaking to someone’s parent that way.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Ezra</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Anthony</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>u kidding i just KNEW she deadnamed me on the spot and like</em>
</p><p>
  <em>i swear i was working up the courage to tell you</em>
</p><p>
  <em>i just wasn’t there yet</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Dr. Ezra Full-Name-Only</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>And you don’t have to be there yet. I will be here—and I will stay here—whenever you’re ready for me to do so.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Ezra</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Anthony</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>are you KIDDING me yes i am ready you swept in like some fucking avenging angel and rescued me</em>
</p><p>
  <em>i am officially uninvited from easter</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and we are now nc again and that is NEVER changing</em>
</p><p>
  <em>angel you got no IDEA how much i</em>
</p><p>
  <em>just</em>
</p><p>
  <em>THANK YOU</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Dr. Ezra Full-Name-Only</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Is this something to celebrate? I am sorry your attempt at reaching out didn’t end well, but I’m glad you no longer have to deal with her transphobia.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Ezra</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Anthony</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>it sucks especially hard because shes such an awesome feminist. like she was almost coming around when i reached out but then one of her friends got her all TERFified and now she thinks i stole her daughter away like the evil trans I am</em>
</p><p>
  <em>unrelated do you always sign your texts?</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Dr. Fell?”</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Dr. Ezra Full-Name-Only</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Yes. Best, Dr. Ezra Fell</em>
</p><p>
  <em>P.S. You lost the battle with autocorrect in that last message. Was that a capital I? Tut tut.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Anthony</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>dfhjdgssssssssss</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Dr. Fell? Hello?”</p><p>Ezra looked up from his phone. Oh. Yes. Adam’s rehearsal was over. Well then. He cleared his throat and stood up.</p><p>“Apologies. I was updating Dr. Crowley on how things have been going.” He <em>saw</em> that grin on Anathema’s face. And Adam’s. And Pepper’s. And everyone’s but Newt, really. Were they <em>that</em> obvious?</p><p>“Is he feeling all right?” Newt asked. “I hope he’ll be able to make the performance tomorrow.”</p><p>“I hope so too,” said Ezra. “But I do believe he’s feeling better.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ezra, poor baby, you will survive one day without your six-day crush, I promise.</p><p>(Y'all I have one more chapter to write, one libretto to finish, and perhaps an epilogue if I'm feeling fancy. We're almost done! What. Only took me a year.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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